


Holding Cell

by red-catmander (maximum_overboner)



Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Casual Sex, M/M, Oh nooo we're stuck in jail together and grow to enjoy each other's company oh nooo, Romantic Tension, Rytlogan, Sexual Tension, based on that one snargle goldclaw novel ingame, rytlock begrudgingly learns the power of friendship as logan and caithe just have a nice time, rytlock brimstone is a tsundere and i'll stand by that claim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:08:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28769850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maximum_overboner/pseuds/red-catmander
Summary: Rytlock Brimstone is trapped in a human jail with a hairless mouse, a talking plant intent on infuriating him and a headache the size of the Black Citadel. Now he's stuck fighting in the arena, buying his freedom one slog at a time, and the only thing awaiting him when he gets out is scrapper duty.He hates these people. He's sure of it. Especially Thackeray.He really, really wants to hate these people.
Relationships: Rytlock Brimstone/Logan Thackeray
Comments: 8
Kudos: 26





	Holding Cell

**Author's Note:**

> hey hey! set during the prequel book when they're fighting in the lion's arch arena. hope you enjoy

As their reputations grew, so did their freedoms.

“One hour,” said Sangjo. “Not a minute more.”

They stared blankly at one another.

Rytlock could strongarm his way through the asura gate and back to the Citadel. The worst the Lionguard could do was send a strongly worded letter demanding his return, something they had little ability to enforce.

Logan could leave with a caravan. The glut of experienced mercenaries did little to stifle demand, he would be back with the Ebon Vanguard within the week.

Caithe could simply pick a direction and walk. Following a thread, spooling it slowly to study how it tangled from person to person, place to place.

But one person leaving would doom the rest.

A protracted ordeal in the arena.

A looming billet.

A long, slow death in chains.

An hour in Lion’s Arch per day, no more than a mile from their prison. No weapons, no coin. All money made in the arena was to be spent through Sangjo, who would make the necessary arrangements when requested. They could make a million gold but until they paid their debt in full they could never once touch it. In the arena, it was everything. Beyond its walls, they might as well trade in dirt.

Sangjo spoke coolly. “To prevent bribes, you see.”

Caithe raised a brow. Her tree-leather pauldrons creaked when she crossed her arms. “Magnus has that little faith in his own men?”

“On the contrary,” replied Sangjo, “he’s a pragmatist. Take it as a compliment. You’re much too valuable to be trusted with your own money, gods-forbid you try and spend it.”

Logan gestured to the sea, the sky, the miles of open space around them. “Then why let us out at all? What’s to stop us bolting?”

Sangjo shrugged. “That question falls to you, not me. I am simply here to do my job.”

“Wait a minute,” Rytlock cut in, looming, “if you’re the only one handling our winnings, how do we know you’re not skimming some off the top? That doesn’t strike anyone else as shady?”

“I already take a percentage. It’s in my best interest to keep you happy and fighting.”

Rytlock stood in a way that made it clear this was not a question. “You ever thought about taking less?”

“It’s a fair amount, I assure you. If you need to make a purchase,” he said, with a polite bow, “inform me and I will have it for you before tomorrow’s match. Return before the bell chimes.”

Then he waved them off, like children sent to play while their parents attended to the house. He closed the door.

“Well,” said Rytlock. “This is humiliating.”

“Tell me about it,” Logan replied, glumly. “I think I’d prefer being in the cell.”

“Even charr toddlers get to keep their swords in their free time.”

“Their training swords?”

“Uh… Sure.” Rytlock moved to paw at Sohothin’s hilt and loured when his hand met nothing. He felt as if he had been stripped of his clothes and shoved into the street. “No weapons in Lion’s Arch. What happens if someone tries to mug me?”

Caithe spoke. “I doubt anyone will even consider mugging you.”

Rytlock, ego stroked, smiled and puffed up. He stood upright, crossing his arms and standing two heads taller than the crowd that passed them. “Yeah. I s’pose I am pretty intimidating.”

Caithe nodded. “A mugger will target someone who looks wealthy.”

She vanished in the throng of people, carried by their tide. Rytlock’s brain caught up to his ears.

“Hey!”

Rytlock and Logan glanced uneasily at one another. They said nothing. With a lingering look, they departed, walking in opposite directions. Rytlock spent his time near the gates, pretending to bask by the sea, scoping out the gates and gauging who was the easiest rat to thrash. Logan wandered the market, watching the carts come and go. What seemed valuable, what seemed under-guarded, who looked like they would hire someone with two working arms. Caithe lurked on the roof, watching both.

Rytlock returned first. He would not— could not— leave without Sohothin. Caithe followed, greeting him with a quiet nod, and set up in the shade of the arena, closing her eyes and leaning against the wall. They sat in silence.

“D'you think,” Rytlock blurted, “he’s coming back?”

Caithe looked at him, brow raised. She chuckled— a brief, odd noise— and said nothing.

“Why the hell are you laughing? It’s a fair question. He’s got nothing to lose. Y’know what? Let him. We don’t even need him. You pick out their sore spots, I bash ‘em in. We’re set. Screw Logan. What does he bring to the table? Nothing. He takes up space. When he’s there there’s less table for the both of us. You ‘n me! Caithe and Rytlock. All table. No bullshit.”

Caithe cracked open an eye, looking him up and down. She laughed fully, something Rytlock hadn’t heard her do.

“What,” he protested, putting force behind it, “is so funny?”

“You really don’t see it, do you?”

“See what?”

Caithe shook her head. She got comfortable, one foot propped to the wall and the other planted firmly to the ground.

“Damn tree-children,” Rytlock mumbled, assuming she would hear. “Better off as kindling, if you ask me.”

“If you’re trying to get a rise out of me then you will be here a while. Not all of us have such foul tempers.”

Rytlock thundered over, gripping the vegetal fabric of her suit and yanking her up.

_“I DO NOT HAVE A FOUL—!”_

Caithe smiled lightly, unruffled. Rytlock dropped her, sitting on the arena stairs in silence.

“So,” he said, taking care to temper the volume of his voice. “... Why’d you come back?”

“It isn’t often I come across people like you and Logan. You’re rather fascinating.”

“Like a travelling freak-show?” he joked.

“Yes,” she nodded. “That’s a perfect example.”

Rytlock turned to face the street, chewing on his top lip and muttering under his breath. A familiar silhouette bobbed through the crowd, greeting them with a little wave. Thackeray, with the most to gain in leaving, returning to them.

“Knew you’d come back,” said Rytlock.

“He didn’t,” said Caithe. “I did. It’s good to see you, Logan.”

“Well,” said Logan, “if you’re gonna stand any chance in there I figured you’d need my help.”

Caithe nodded. Rytlock rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Let’s let ‘em know we’re here before we get our knuckles rapped.” Rytlock thudded at the door loud enough to make a stall-owner a street over jolt. “Hate for them to take our toys. Ground us. Can you believe we’re being treated like this?”

“I’ll take this over rotting in some dungeon.”

“Well, when you put it like that…”

Sangjo opened the door. “Good. With me.”

They followed. Lionguard flanked them. They braced themselves to be cuffed but found the formality done away with. The hall grew damper, more constricted, sunlight strangled through the steel-bars of the windows. The stench of waste and clamour of prisoners grew overpowering.

“Wait,” said Rytlock, “how much money have we made?”

“One gold,” Sangjo replied.

“When’s our next bout?”

“Tomorrow. Four branded ogres.”

“When we win?”

“Four gold each.”

Rytlock tugged the braid of his beard. “I want a nicer place,” he said. “The cells stink and I’m sick of sleeping on concrete. Put me down for one of those.”

“Agreed,” Caithe added.

“Hey,” said Logan, “look, I know it’s not glamorous, but we can’t go spending all our—”

“Give him the cell,” Caithe and Rytlock said in unison.

Sangjo slipped a notepad from his jacket and a fountain-pen, carved gold at the tip. “How nice?”

“Uh…” Rytlock turned to his companions. “Are we splitting this?”

“I am willing to,” Caithe said.

“Fine, fine. You’re happy to bunk with us?” asked Logan.

“No,” said Rytlock, “but if you’re paying I can live with it. Make it anywhere that isn’t here and I’ll consider it a palace.”

“Wait here,” said Sanjgo, writing something. He walked off. He returned a few minutes later. “You pay per night. You can’t afford to lose tomorrow’s match.”

“Didn’t plan to,” Rytlock shrugged.

Sangjo smiled. “Good. Come along.”

They spun and turned tail, out of the prison and back into the sunlight.  
  


* * *

  
Their cells grew to encompass the entirety of Lion’s Arch.

As their victories grew— from branded ogres to mercenaries to Destroyers dumped on their laps— so did their privileges. The one-hour curfew was relaxed quickly but Edge of Steel spent most of their time in their chambers anyway as they became too famous to walk the streets unbothered, save for Rytlock who insisted on going on long walks to 'stretch his legs'. He would storm in, complain about how famous and adored they all were and how many things he had to sign with his claw for the various adorable cubs who had declared him their favourite, then thunder from task to task as if he loathed every moment of it. They took up residence in a hotel near the arena; a pillar of white stone supporting an upturned carrack, swallowing it like baked bread swallows twine. They made their home in the hull of the great ship, the keel a sloped roof, the inverted hold clinging to lanterns and glittering chandeliers.

Rytlock and Logan laboured up the stairs. The teal moon crept slowly to the window like a tentative animal. They grunted a ‘hi’ to the guards stationed at their door.

Logan thought it was funny, that they were paying people to keep them imprisoned. Sangjo refused to sign off on the accommodation without them.

Rytlock slipped off his breastplate with a relieved sigh, disrobing. “That’s better. What’re we eating?”

“I don’t know,” Logan replied. “You pick something.”

“Fine. But don’t do that thing where I pick then you get mad ‘cause I didn’t get what you wanted. You want something, order it.”

Logan removed his own plate. He looked at a nasty burn on his arm and brought his palm to it. Calm, blue light swept over his fingers and dulled the ache, like warm water. “Really, pick something. After that match, I’m just happy to eat.”

Rytlock carved something on scrap wood and slipped it under the door. “Tell me about it. I’m gonna go clean the blood out of my fur, keep an ear out.”

Logan swept his hand over his arm. The burn, like dry glue, peeled away to reveal healthy skin underneath. “Will do.”

The door knocked soon after. Logan opened it to dinner, all meat and eggs and inordinate amounts of alcohol, with a sad little basket of potatoes in the middle. Rytlock shoved him out of the way, dragged a cooked half-boar in by its haunch, slammed it on the table and set to work. Logan brought in the rest and wrote a tip for the guard, signing it.

“So,” said Logan wearily, “do you want a knife and fork, or…?”

Rytlock peered at him over the carcass. He grinned and resumed his meal.

“Thought not,” Logan sighed. He picked up a moa leg and tore in, amazed he could make eating meat with his hands look like the height of civility. “Did you get any salted hare?”

“No,” said Rytlock, eying him.

“Oh,” said Logan, disappointed. “Okay.”

“You do this every damn time!”

Logan took a pull from his tankard and yelped. He gripped his side. Rytlock chewed slowly, looking at him.

“Just a cracked rib,” said Logan. “I can fix this.”

Rytlock grunted. He tipped an omelette down his maw. Logan wondered why Rytlock had all those teeth if he never chewed with them.

“You could have helped a little out there.”

“You did fine,” Rytlock grunted.

“I’m not fishing for compliments. I’m telling you you could have helped.”

“It’s a Destroyer. Fire magic. Sohothin just makes ‘em bigger and madder. If you wanted more of a challenge, ask, don’t whine about it.”

“I don’t want a challenge.”

“So you’re a coward.”

“Will you drop it for five minutes? If you’d let me get to the end of my sentence without your charr dick-waving,” Logan said, “I’m saying I’d appreciate your help.”

Rytlock stared at him blankly.

“What? What, what is it?”

Rytlock held his broken paw aloft, swollen at the wrist.

“Oh… When’d that happen?”

“When you were fighting and I was sunning myself in the arena hammock. Getting a manicure. When’d you think?”

“And you ordered food first?”

“Uh… Yeah?”

Logan stood, walking to Rytlock. Rytlock presented his hand limply. With his claws retracted his fingers petered off into fat stumps. Logan pressed at one.

“Easy,” Rytlock hissed.

He clamped his hands over the swollen bulbs of his wrist and, pressing in, did all he could. Rytlock surveyed his work, extending his claws and touching his fingers, one at a time, to his thumb. “Huh.”

“It’ll hurt tonight but should be good for tomorrow. What happened?”

“Saw one of those little magma freaks coming for you when your back was turned. Punched it.”

Logan couldn't stop himself smiling. “You… Punched out a rock?”

“Not really," Rytlock admitted. "But I like to think I got pretty close.”

“Thank you,” said Logan, warmly. “Really.”

“Well…” Rytlock scratched his neck. “Don’t make a habit of it. Where the hell is the potted plant, anyway?”

“You didn’t hear? She bought her own room.”

“She told you that?”

“I saw it on the walk back. Upped and left.”

“So she’s abandoned us?”

Logan shrugged. “Don’t take it personally. Caithe does as she pleases. She likes her space.”

Rytlock scoffed. “Yeah, I noticed that.”

Logan laughed. “I can’t believe it. You really are taking it personally, aren’t you?”

“It’s her fault we’re in here,” he gruffed. He leaned back in his chair, his fur a thick brown-black, red mane falling to his back. “And she’s acting like it isn’t.”

“Well,” Logan conceded, “she set the bear loose, but…”

“But what?”

“You did set that fire.”

“Yeah.”

“And throw the bear into the crowd.”

“It was funny. They deserved it.”

“It wasn’t funny,” Logan gently chided, “that thing could have killed a hundred people before it escaped.”

“Yeah, hilariously. If you think you can make me feel bad for that audience you’ve got another thing coming. I,” he said, “just wanted to take my stuff and go the hell home. I wasn’t even gonna kill you. But no. The coleslaw got too weepy about the sad animal. And who has to come in and save the day? Me. Again.”

“‘Save the day’? You burnt down an arena and put us five hundred gold in debt. Even if you turned tail and left, we’d still be fighting in the arena and still doing a great job.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“We would. We’re better fighters than you think.”

“I mean you wouldn’t make it to the arena at all. You’d be run through for destruction of property. A sylvari and a human are weird. A sylvari, a human and a charr? That’s downright interesting. Edge of Steel is a novelty act, Thackeray. Roll with it.”

Logan filled his tankard. “An undefeated novelty act.”

Rytlock grinned. “You’re damn right we are. DRINK!”

“If I’m filling my tankard it means I’m drinking. You don’t have to yell it every—”

“DRINK!”

Logan shook his head and followed suit. “Y’know, the asura gates were the other way, Rytlock. You didn’t have to follow us.”

Rytlock humphed. “If I spent all that time trying to murder you and some half-starved, blind animal did what I couldn’t, I’d have had to gut myself out of shame. Couldn’t let it happen.”

“I leapt in,” said Logan, “because Caithe is my friend.”

Rytlock thought of something to say. He tore into his moa leg. Logan had a bad habit of being so earnest that it left Rytlock at a loss. He blurted out the first thing that came to mind to take the pressure off.

“I could still kill you,” he said. Rytlock looked exasperated with himself. He muttered, “wow, really?”

“A fight to the death, then.”

“Third time’s the charm."

They looked uneasily at one another. Logan nibbled his moa-leg. Rytlock sunk his tankard in one.

“After dinner,” said Logan.

“After dinner.”

“No point stopping now.”

“Exactly. We eat, then we fight to the death.”

“Perfect. Are you gonna eat those potatoes?”

Rytlock scooted them over.

“Thanks,” said Logan.

“You’re welcome.”

“You’re really putting it away tonight.”

“Figure I’m not gonna be in my twenties forever,” Rytlock shrugged, slapping the keg on its top like a trusty dolyak. “Might as well cash in all the advantages I’ve got.”

“Like an iron liver?”

“I guess.” He cracked a thundershrimp, twisting it between his claws, and threw the shell in a pile on the floor. He crammed the white meat in his gullet. “And an unlimited budget.”

Logan moved to scold him but was cut off.

“Don’t get your imaginary tail in a twist, I’m paying my part of the billet. It’s not all fine dining, booze and scorta. Check the logs if you want.”

“I believe you.” The candles popped, bathing the room in an orange glow. Rytlock looked surprisingly soft. Logan caught Rytlock looking at him, bruised and half-dressed. Pity? Contempt? His face was always locked in a grimace. “What’s a ‘scorta’? That a charr thing?”

Rytlock scratched his chin. “I think you guys call ‘em ‘whores’?”

Logan spat out his drink.

"You son of a bitch, I just cleaned my fur!"

“Rytlock, you can’t spend all our billet money on prostitutes!”

“C’mon,” Rytlock replied, “if we were living on water and bread I’d get your point. But we’re eating thundershrimp and drinking wine. We got massages yesterday. Go out, fight ‘til you get your fill, eat like a prince, fuck yourself into a coma, wake up and do it all again. In the Cit, you’re lucky if you get a bucket to shit in and only one beating. Human jail rules! I _love_ jail!”

“You do all that,” Logan replied, “you live like a spoiled prince, doesn’t mean you are one.”

Rytlock rolled his eyes with amazing force. “Oh, here we go. Nag nag nag, Sohothin isn’t even here and you’re still gonna get your greasy hair in a twist.”

“I’m not gonna let this— my hair isn’t greasy.”

Rytlock crossed his arms, looking away. “Yeah. Yeah, I said it.”

Logan recoiled. “There’s nothing wrong with my hair!”

“You’re made of oil. You leak skin-flakes wherever you go and it’s disgusting. You all have this weird smell. You don’t even groom.”

“We don’t do that!”

“Clearly.”

“You bring up hairballs every hour of the night and I’m disgusting because I don’t lick my own balls?”

“I’m glad you said it,” Rytlock huffed. “And you make me sound like some bum. I don’t spend all my money. I do want to get out of here.”

“You aren’t acting like it.”

“Yeah, like you’re much better.”

Logan looked at him witheringly. “What is that supposed to mean? I spend my coin on necessary expenses.”

“You don’t.”

“I do.”

“You don’t. Caithe does,” said Rytlock, “you got fancy new armour.”

Logan launched into a tirade of such offence that Rytlock knew he had him beat. “You want me to take on a clan of ogres in soiled rags? My old plate was bashed to scrap, I’m not going out there unprotected.”

Rytlock looked him up and down. “Okay. Okay, fine.” He rose and moved to the corner of the room where they kept their belongings. He looked at the alcove where he would put Sohothin if he was allowed to have it. He hauled up his breastplate and set it on the table. “This is my armour.”

“I figured,” said Logan, looking at the plate of tank-thick metal.

“You see anything special about it?”

“Lot of spikes.”

“Right. I’m big enough that if I fall on someone…”

Rytlock picked up the gigantic moa bone and set it at his feet. He held his breastplate and dropped it, scattering shards of bone in a dozen different directions. Logan gulped.

“You follow?”

“I know what armour is.”

Rytlock picked up Logan’s breastplate, shined to a gleaming polish, and set it down. The plackart was embossed with ornamental silver, decorated with various Krytan crests and patterns. If Logan wore it in Lion’s Arch thieves would descend from the rafters to pick him clean.

“Silver,” said Logan, aware he had no leg to stand on, “has healing properties.”

“Bullshit it does. You want to be the arena fancy man!”

Rytlock dipped his head forward, piling his mane over his horns and parting it in the middle. He rose, letting it flop impotently. “‘Oh, look at me, I’m Logan. I’m all pink and oily and shiny, I hope my oily, shiny queen is looking. I worship a bunch of dumb gods who won’t return my letters. Rytlock, why aren’t you stabbing the fire creature with your fire magic and getting us all killed, you lazy’—”

Logan broke into wheezing laughter. As he moved, his bangs flopped. He noticed and laughed harder. Rytlock couldn’t keep his even, sullen keel. “Don’t laugh when I’m making fun of you. I do that for me.”

“But you’re funny.”

“I am funny but you don’t get to laugh.” He slapped the chest plate. “When this is over, mind if I take this home? If I claim it’s a trophy they might promote me. Or at least not bust me down to scrapper for showing up so late.”

“Over my dead body.”

Rytlock sat down. He fixed his mane, tying it back in a bun. “Not hard to arrange. If you wanna wear expensive tinfoil, I get to shoot off in whoever I damn well please. That’s fair.”

“In what world,” Logan protested, “is that a necessary expense?”

“This one.”

“No more.”

“But I get horny,” Rytlock sulked.

“Use your paw!”

“It’s not the same. We’re paying cooks. I don’t see how this is different.”

“It just— it just is!”

“Why?”

“It just is.”

Rytlock shook his head. “Humans...”

He perused Logan with that same inscrutable expression. He dragged his eyes up, over and down him. Logan was being regarded. For what purpose, he wasn’t sure. Rytlock stood and walked to stand beside him. He lay a tentative claw on his shoulder, dragging the sharp end up Logan’s neck, cresting on the hill and dipping again to rest under his chin. He was sure, at that moment, that he had finally crossed some line. That Brimstone was going to kill him.

Rytlock dipped to slowly, slowly, run his tongue over the scratch. He withdrew, leaving the smell of honey and meat, and looked into Logan’s eyes to gauge the response.

“... You weren’t flirting.”

He took a step back.

“You weren’t flirting. Okay. Sorry. I thought... My bad. Backing off.”

“I,” Logan stammered, boar-meat red, his neck wet and pricked with scratches from the tongue, “I… You’re a charr.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re a _male_ charr!”

“Yeah...?”

“What made you think I was...?”

“We were drinking, and yelling,” Rytlock replied, “and I thought maybe… Burn me, how humiliating.”

“Yelling? Why would— yelling? Is that what you think flirting is?”

“I’m Blood Legion.” he shrugged.

“That’s insane. How can you tell if someone wants to kiss you or kill you?”

“Part of the mystery. We’ve both got more than enough banked to rent our own rooms but we didn’t. And we were having a good time, and I thought you not wanting me to see a scorta was maybe… Look, drop it, alright? Goodnight.”

Rytlock kicked his blanket onto the floor and sunk into his sleeping position, curled on himself, tucking his tail over his eyes to keep the light out. He remained still. Like he could dupe Logan into thinking he was immediately unconscious. Logan, housing a brain, did not fall for this. “If I said yes, were you really gonna…?”

Rytlock groaned. He untucked his paws from under his body and hid his face in them. “No. It was a joke. Go to sleep. Don’t tell Caithe or anyone else for that matter. Ever. Goodnight.”

“Didn’t sound like a joke.”

“Well, it was. It’s a charr thing you wouldn’t get. For the thirtieth time, goodnight.”

“You’re lying.”

“Ugh…”

“How could you think—” Logan blustered, “I mean, we hate each other.”

Rytlock’s ears fell in obvious hurt. He rolled over, facing away.

“I didn’t mean that,” said Logan, “I meant… Our people don’t have the best history.”

“Not what you said.”

“It’s what I meant.”

“Not what you said,” Rytlock repeated.

“Well,” Logan said, softly, “it’s not what I meant. Really. Sorry.”

Rytlock remained silent. Logan could almost feel the embarrassment in the air, palpable like the magic he wielded in battle.

“If I _was_ gonna… Y’know… A charr…”

“Shut up. Go to bed. Never bring this up again.”

“I could do a lot worse than you. I hope you don’t feel… Awkward. I get it! I really do.” Logan stood. He walked over to the pile of Rytlock and found what he hoped was a shoulder. “Y’know, you have limited options in jail, so you might consider things you never—”

“Kill me.”

“Really. It’s fine. I’m not gonna be weird about it. We’re still friends.”

“We’re not friends,” Rytlock snarled, “we weren’t ever friends!”

Logan looked crestfallen. He put Rytlock in mind of a caricature. With no ears to twitch and no tail to thrash, humans wore their feelings with such nakedness. He felt, at once, sickened and envious.

“So you propositioned me…” Logan flicked his hair back. “Because I’m just that irresistible?”

“No,” Rytlock spat, “you’re a human! A flimsy, quivering little bag of meat. A mouse.”

“Ah. So you have low standards?”

“No!”

“So you have high standards! Well, Rytlock, I’m flattered. It’s good to see the ol' Thackeray charm extends to—”

“Your ‘Thackeray charm’ is gonna be pasted to the wall if you don’t shut your damn trap!”

“Then what was it?”

“Because you… Fine, because you are my friend and sex isn’t as big a deal as you guys make it out to be. There. You got it out of me. For the last time, will you go to sleep?”

Logan looked touched. Sincerely, truly touched. Rytlock crammed his head under the blanket.

“So you do like me,” Logan brayed. “You like spending time with me.”

“Not anymore I don’t.”

Logan clapped his hands in realization, bringing them to rest on his knees. “You aren’t ‘into’ humans,” he said, “you’re treating me like a charr! That’s…”

“You aren’t one, I get it. I’m embarrassed enough as it is.”

“... Really flattering. Thank you.”

He held his hand out.

“My friend.”

Rytlock looked at him, his dark fur hiding scarlet-red skin. He presented his paw and took it. “Has anyone ever told you you’re... Really damn obnoxious?”

Logan laughed lightly. “Would you do that for Caithe?”

Rytlock scratched his neck. “Uh… Not worth trying.”

“I don’t follow.”

“She doesn’t like males. I’m not a fan of plants, either.”

“She gets along with us fine.”

Rytlock gave him a look that could wither and kill the Pale Tree. “She’s a lesbian, Logan.”

“Oh! Oh... Huh. Really?”

“Sheesh… So, yeah. I treated you like a charr. We do that. Sex isn't some big thing. What about you? What'd treating me like a human look like?”

“Well,” said Logan. “I’d invite you to those secret meetings we leak oil and write more letters for the gods to ignore.”

Rytlock cracked up.

“I mean,” said Logan, “I do like you.”

Rytlock furrowed his brows, sinking his ears. “Don’t feel like you need to do anything just ‘cause we do it.”

“... Even if I’m curious?”

Logan knew what face Rytlock was making. “You sure?”

“I… Yeah. If it’s you, yeah. Screw it. How many people get this opportunity?”

“From the way you reacted I assumed you weren’t really into males.”

“I didn’t think I was.”

Rytlock beckoned him forward. His neck was thicker than even Logan’s wide shoulders. “Remember,” he gruffed. “It’s just biology. Like scratching an itch. Eating a steak. Doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“If it doesn’t mean anything, why do it at all?”

“Feels good.”

“That’s still something.”

“I guess,” Rytlock shrugged.

Logan’s mouth found the band of muscle under Rytlock’s lower horns, kissing it clumsily. “Maybe I want it to mean something.”

Rytlock looked away, throwing his palm over his eyes.

“You… Ugh, you damn humans!”


End file.
